


Ligation

by ghirahimuwu



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: 29000 characters exactly, Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Lightning - Freeform, M/M, Sharing a Room, Supportive Relationship, Trauma, fear of storms, oh boy, zant doesnt hurt him but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 05:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11776869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghirahimuwu/pseuds/ghirahimuwu
Summary: An old demon’s rhyme spoke of thunder as the ally of Demise, the harbinger of his dominion. Yet, it was all too ominous for Ghirahim's liking. Lightning struck somewhere close. He rolled in his sheets.Three knocks on the door. Zant opened, and, half-knowingly, allowed Ghirahim's soul to spill forth for the first time.It changed their relationship forever.





	Ligation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thebakkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebakkat/gifts).



> thank you beforehand for reading this! sorry for taking so long on it, i've been drawing more than anything.  
> this fic is dedicated to my friends kat, vin, savvy, omi and zecta. i love you all so much!  
> follow me on tumblr at https://www.ghirahimuwu.tumblr.com
> 
> ♦ EXTRA SPACES ADDED FOR ACCESSIBILITY ♦

_Thunder roars above the frail Surface, which fights back in vain, and finally comes to dissolve_... into less than ondulations, not even a mirage of the former mighty desert dunes. _Lightning can touch it all, reach it all, burn it all. Its claws like iridescent whips on the sky have promised to reach all that bears light_. An old demon’s rhyme spoke of thunder as the ally of Demise, the harbinger of his dominion. Yet, it was all too ominous for Ghirahim's liking. Lightning struck somewhere close, judging by the clamor of its descent. It made the silver hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Had his false flesh possessed any manner of hair, it would, too, be upright.

 

Amidst that carnal chaos, Zant had most likely found it too easy (too  terribly  easy) to fall asleep.  At least, that is what Ghirahim thought from within the  apparent  insecurity of his cold, lonely room. Why, the idea of lying next to the wreckage of a soldier made him feel safe.  Perhaps  he could toy with him enough to keep the storm off his mind!

Clouds rolled in grave hues of both blue and red, the darkest of all. Even the most foreseeing of oracles would fear the unexpected in such a weather. His bones of metallic material felt the threat of bursting into sparks. They sensed it way too close. Ghirahim rolled in his sheets. 

 

The pain of electrocution could spread through his body like it would in any other sword, and also untie the bond it had with his soul.

When he was Ghirahim in body no longer, what would he be? Would he have a name, or a title to gloat over? Could he serve Demise again after losing his flesh?

 

Once again, Zant came to mind like a promise of distraction. Yet, he was sleeping in his own quarters. Cursed creatures of flesh with their terrenal needs, and all too mundane biorhythms! Ghirahim felt,  oddly  enough, this one time that would be a blessing.

 

“Oof-” he grunted, as he lifted his body from the covers.

 

Everything felt heavier than usual, and his toned muscles seemed to have clenched beyond all flexibility  . Seldom was something so paralyzing for him. He would resist,  however , because Demon Lords are way above measly scares like those.

Still… every time the sky plummeted down with fury, punishing the land below, he felt shivers and memories return which he’d rather keep buried for eons.

 

-

 

Three knocks on the door. The night was still wrathful and bellowing outside. Three knocks plus one, the final call before Zant opened the door only  slightly  . He needn't peek at who it was! Only Ghirahim would dare awaken him at that time of the night, knocking so  faintly  .  And there he was, his wide eyes displaying his emotion in such an unfathomable way Zant would rot before guessing what ailed him  . There was a moment of hesitation in both faces.  Perhaps  it was Ghirahim’s attempt of a charming simper what finally caused Zant to cave in and allow him passage; or  perhaps  he  simply  wasn't all that irritated by his interruption.

 

“Ghirahim… how fortuitous.”

 

The truth was Ghirahim could  clearly  discern something positive in Zant’s tone. Almost resigned, but positive  nevertheless . Feigning inconvenience, so he could look more benevolent when he finally made way for him. Meanwhile, he exhibited a smile of genuine concern on his face.

Taking such as a positive sign, Ghirahim prompted himself in, his stance strained. His feet almost slid on the hard flooring, and as he lost balance the frame was his best ally. Moments later he settled on Zant’s bed with his express permission.

 

“How has sleep treated you this night?”

 

“Pardon me, I must have  absolutely  missed when the sun rose.”

 

Zant’s sarcastic response was enough to assure Ghirahim that it would all be over soon.  The person in front of him had allowed him to interrupt his sleep; enter his room (although he had  practically  bolted in); and lie on his bed. And not only was he not complaining, but also smiling and joking with well-kept composure about it all.

 

“It has not, yet. The motive of my little invasion is…”

 

Already, there he was: august like an imperturbable emperor molded in ivory, hands laced together and next to him . Zant rose like a column, but without towering too much.

 

“...you are not  entirely  calm.” Zant, brow contorted in interrogation, dared finish his sentence and risk Ghirahim's snapback.

 

He knew how  strongly  he despised interruptions.

And although something in him made him desire to  be understood  , to spill his guts to him; as soon as Zant sat down next to him and the bed  barely  budged, something clicked in Ghirahim’s mind: 

 

He could not show weakness.

 

“I fear you are wrong.” As he spoke, his tongue dragged  slowly, his natural ancient lilt more noticeable. “I wished to inform you of the dream I had... _of **us**_ , and of its ludicrous nature.”

 

It was almost convincing enough. Ghirahim’s tone  barely  let out any signs of his shaken state. It  barely  gave him away at all.

 

But Zant… oh, he knew better.

“Ghirahim, that is implausible.” The Twili’s hands were like doves. They fluttered  finely  and set on his lap, close to Ghirahim’s thighs, but not _quite there_.

 

His gaze was adrift for a few seconds, tracing those runes, watching them irradiate luminosity ever so  slightly  , as they did when he  was flustered.

 

“Hmm… you are blushing,  however ,” he grinned as his steel-colored gaze met Zant’s. “I daresay you find the idea of such a dream titillating.”

 

Before Zant replied, there was a second or two of silence. As was his tradition, Ghirahim filled it with rapid thought and incessant pondering. It was not that of worry, luckily for him and his noggin.  On the contrary, it was quite a mindful ideation.  He was trying to determine whether he should try to lead Zant down the road to pleasure, or  overtly  manifest his need for distraction.

Thunder cracked on the open air outside, crushing it within its mighty fist, and with it, Ghirahim’s nerve. But he did not allow himself to falter, or allow a crevice in his composure wide enough to let his doubts and fear pass.

 

Yet, in the interim of his reflection, Zant passed a word or two.

 

“You truly are disturbed.”

Like he  was alienated  in the observation!

 

Oh, how insensitive of him to say that  just  as his right hand sought Ghirahim’s in a blind manner, heedless of the places it travelled in its quest. Luckily enough, even in his most subconscious affection he had boundaries.  Boundaries which Ghirahim would enjoy to see overstepped at the very moment, in a mutual agreement to let their problems go and find a distraction - any sort of it.

Because he  simply  could not let his guard down in front of someone who revered him as much as he would the moon and the stars  .  There was something implicit in how Zant’s molten eyes devoured his figure and soaked up in his battle stance . Ghirahim was akin to a deity for him, but one flawed in depth. How much of that was Zant aware of? How many of those imperfections did he see, and how many did he overlook? Millions!

For in Ghirahim’s eyes, he, too, was the embodiment of the sacred; but that would always leave room for flaws.  Flaws made Zant stronger in Ghirahim’s mind, flaws were the great foundations of his architecture; then made complete by their juxtaposition with all that is perfect and harmonic.

But he? What could his flaws offer? An immortal’s attitude  surely  has no room for stains, and even less for those that mark his quality as a warrior.  In the Twili’s perception of his neverending courage and almost mechanical precision, could he bend enough to admit his fear  ?  Such an irrational fear… albeit rooted in an authentic phenomenon, wasn’t he safe within those walls  ? Wasn’t he?  ' _Truly_ _disturbed_ ’, a _Demon Lord_?

 

It all seemed  frankly  beyond laughable. Ghirahim had no room for fear. None.

And if he told Zant that he could not stand thunder, would he laugh? Oh, definitely, that’s for sure!

 

So he only offered his truest effigy of a winsome smile, along with the words: “When was I ever?”

 

Although Zant hadn’t been idle during Ghirahim’s thoughts, after those words he shifted.  Supportively  stroking Ghirahim's hands, Zant held them in tender gesture. Then, he crawled to a position in which he could face him with relative ease.

 

“Multiple  times, if I know you well. And that I do, judging by the amount of time we have spent together. I have seen your many facets, Ghirahim. But they all reflect you. You have shown me what lies past your hardy exterior, the colors within; whether you liked it or not. I know I did.”

 

Those words…

It took all in Ghirahim's mind to come to terms with exactly what Zant was telling him.  He  truly  did know him in depth, well enough to represent him as a multifaceted diamond using only sublime allegorical phrasing.

Always true to his nature as a lover of linguistics, Zant had the words to instill in Ghirahim a thought so precise its mere ideation must have required extended pondering  . But to him, it seemed to come so  naturally ! As much as it wounded Ghirahim's pride to admit it, Zant was even better than him at monologuing. There wasn't room for doubt. His emotional intelligence was, without a doubt, sublime.

What could he scheme to be free from responding to such artful declaration? Ghirahim was  unknowingly  gritting his teeth, and meanwhile, he drifted from Zant's proximity.

 

And he reacted  accordingly , raising his brow in a clear sign of confusion. Was Ghirahim rejecting his affection and favors? Very unlike him, although he did always leave room for a surprise.

In his  overall  attitude Ghirahim expressed frustration, aged as well as a wine through the years.

When had they met? Had it been a year and a half ago, to the drawing of curtains of the War?

Since that very moment had Ghirahim been feeding this beast, and he had fed it his insides.  Undeniably , there it would remain, for emotions were not his forte, until…

 

Or _forever_.

While he thought, he fell backwards onto the not-soft-enough bed, letting out a huff. His mind  was enlightened : now he had a certain magnetism, with his hand over his lips, knocking knees.

There was his chance, the open window! He had to switch topics.

Making use of his casual, teasing pose, he beckoned.

 

“Ah, I lost interest in such gab. Pardon me. Will you lay with me inste-Ahh!”

 

As he was about to finish his invitation, Hyrule’s sky seemed to open, cloven in half with a glowing butcher's knife. The shining, and its sense-debilitating blast had torn into the room almost  carnally. Ghirahim's voice was the choked-out echo of such raucous splendor.

Only this time, something was different.  Zant, instead of watching his panicked response with narrow eyes -like someone who is reading a page strewn with minuscule symbols-, had figured out the key to everything.

 

“Come.” Deep in tone, his voice was more of a lull than a command.

 

As Ghirahim was beginning to recompose his crumbling self, he felt a pair of long, homely arms wrap around him . Then, a certain weight fell by his side.

Zant buried his face in the crook of Ghirahim's neck after he had turned around to face him.  Normally , he was cold as steel and he felt firm. Not this time.

 

“Ghirahim…”

 

This time, something was different.

 

“Ghirahim, try to relax your muscles.”

 

Was that quivering fit the demon lord sobbing in his arms, or was it  simply  the remnants of his shock from the last lightning? Zant only had the faintest clue  as to  how he should proceed. Lest Ghirahim tried to divert the topic, he made sure to guide him into an open atmosphere.  Soft yet firm, Zant’s hands massaged his lover’s arms, his back, his shoulderblades while peppering his neck with kisses. For the most part, Ghirahim wasn't responsive; if his quaking body was to  be trusted.

When Zant picked up his voice -like through a lisp; distant and cut off to the point of being undecipherable-, he swore he could _hear_ the smell of blood in it.

 

“Zant?” he managed to breathe out, once the shaking had ended.

 

“Yes?”

 

_How regal_ , Ghirahim thought with the lonesome silver of clear thought he could gather. _His head is lacking a crown at this very moment_.

 

Straying from his initial line of thought, he took a second to re-route himself and then spoke:

 

“As much as I hate to admit it,” He could already see the glint of Zant’s toothy encouraging smile. “I am unwell. However... ah, Zant, I will not burden you with talk about my fears!”

 

But his trick  was noticed  in under a split second.

 

“ _Burden me_?” The lilt in Zant’s voice was more and more inquisitive, deep, collected. His eyes widened to match. “Oh, that is so unlike you!  The Ghirahim I know never misses an opportunity to talk about his many grievances and talents,  equally.”

 

Ghirahim appreciated the light-hearted joke. Although the fact that such a quip  was made  in detriment of his personality cost Zant a nip on the tip of his sloped nose.

 

“I figured you would do that, but I stand uncorrected. That must mean you recognize the lie in your own words.”

 

With a puff of air, Ghirahim acknowledged he had talked himself into a hole. When had he become so careless and receptive to Zant's play of words?  Perhaps  the thunder was taking its toll on him.

It was time to weigh his options. He could, in truth, avoid confessing to Zant and thus preserve the flawless image he had of him.  Upon second thought, such image must have shrunk  significantly  as soon as Zant first saw him moan after thunderstrike.

What was the right path? Should he continue guiding Zant towards blissful ignorance through lies? Wouldn’t that only cement a wretched relationship?

His only other choice was to own up to it. _All of it_ , for no part of his fear made sense if the whole picture  was ignored.

If for so long he had been averse, the sight of Zant's agate eyes was healing. It brought to him the certainty that he would  be cared  for no matter what.

 

_Why did mortals have to be so foolish_?

 

Zant felt the most absurd type of adoration towards him. Ghirahim could not decipher it with his own standards, but the way he treated him was considerate. Unlike anyone else, Zant considered him. An equal, a person, someone… not  just  a tool, a means to reach pleasure and  perhaps  the most fleeting victory.

Thus, Ghirahim figured he ought to tell the truth.  A part of him wished to believe it was a reward for Zant’s unconditional treatment when, in fact, he did it because he needed to . And half of him half-knew that.

 

“Yes…” Ghirahim said, defeated.

 

The fact that Zant wasn't taking this as a personal victory gave him the sense of intimacy he required to keep talking  . And  certainly , the hand massaging his back and stroking a scar on his shoulderblade made him feel at ease.

 

“I do have a fear. If I have hidden it from you for so long, Zant, forgive me! I only did it to keep you safe- to keep _this_ safe.”

 

What a cryptic message!  There wasn't much sense in a phrasing that consisted in vague references to _something_ Zant  was supposed  to know beforehand. Had Ghirahim meant to say 'this campaign’? Was his true intention the protection of Ganondorf’s place as the King of Hyrule?

If so, Zant’s admiration for his loyalty had grown.

It had grown in direct proportion to his doubt about how Ghirahim's fear and the safety of their mission correlated.

 

“ _This_?” Zant, then, asked.

 

“Ah, don't play the fool!” Had he been able to, Ghirahim would have crossed his arms. He had enough with huffing in distaste, though.

 

“Ghirahim, I  certainly  am not. You have confused me yet again, is all.”

 

“One would think that after all our time together, and, given your insistence in our relationship not being  merely  that of friends, you would keep it more in mind!” A pause. Zant thought, processed, and understood.

 

“So you were-”

 

“Indeed! Protecting our relationship… Please, I do not desire to explain myself about how. You must keep in mind I still haven't come to terms with the exact nature of _whatever we have going on_. I couldn't name it, for there is no word for me or my people that describes us.”

 

So many thoughts swarmed Zant's mind! Like a hive, it swole with the thrumming of millions of lines of thought.

Like how he hurt knowing Ghirahim did not correspond. And how he loved him either way, even if he didn't say he loved him back- not now, or not ever.  And how he knew exactly what word could describe them… if only it wasn't in Twili, and so far from their reach given the situation!

Only one thought  was allowed  poignance for its condition of  being linked  to the task at hand.

And that thought was: he _had_ to be there for Ghirahim.  Just  like he had been there for him many times. Countless times.

After a moment of grim consideration, Zant pressed his lips to Ghirahim's cool forehead and took in his heat signature with the corners of his lips.

 

He was silent for short before replying: “I know exactly how debilitating it is.”

 

Ghirahim then had to do a double-take. At first he didn't notice the exact meaning of those words.  Like a wounded animal admitting defeat, Zant exposed himself with his arms open wide and showed Ghirahim the truth about his comprehension. There was a reason behind it all, and it only made sense in retrospective.

Zant could only have known of his fear beforehand, or at least experienced something similar  ! If he knew how to proceed, that meant he cared for Ghirahim the way he would like to  be cared  for in a mirroring situation.

It  simply  did not seem like himself. Zant had never been the type to yield to  earthly  fears. He was not of irrational, instinctive primal senses.  Rather a man of thought and strategic ideation, Zant seemed to own the situation and only break in rare situations  . Like when the pressure was too much, and everything had  been done  to no avail.

What could be the object of his fears?  What could  possess  such omnipotent presence that the King of Twilight would cower before ? Was it a thought, an immaterial representation of something? Or did it have physical manifestation outside his mind?

He couldn't imagine Zant being so afraid, so  primitively  afraid.  If his flesh and mind were new in this world that already had eons of furrows of dead and lost souls, why, then, did he fear like the ancient too?

Much like a timeless god, lightning could kill the immortal and mortal alike. But to own one’s mortality is a task so mundane only mortals can undertake.

 

And he had thought Zant had already solved that…

 

“I’m beginning to think the both of us are quite soft, despite what we make ourselves to be.”

 

He stared into Zant's soft eyes, and the comprehensive immensity of their color was deep enough to swim in.

Just  as  softly  came his laugh.  It was clear and so full of pure, authentic calm that Ghirahim noticed it balanced in a perfect middle pitch, without being  deafeningly  shrill or  unsettlingly  low.

 

“All the better. If we were all we made ourselves to be, we soon would run out of interesting conversation topics.”

 

After saying that, Zant rolled on his back bringing Ghirahim on top of him. The weight of his metallic body allowed him to think with clarity.  Ghirahim's pure white smile was his trophy, and upon seeing it his heart knew only of sinking ships and oddly-shaped fireworks.

And meanwhile Ghirahim basked in the glory of a lover like Zant. A lover who knew of the heart and was  slowly  learning about the flesh. It was an undeniable truth, even if sometimes it presented as a real opposition:

 

Zant was, albeit impetuous, very wise.

And, to Ghirahim, knowing he had in him a pair of comprehensive ears and open-armed support was invaluable.

 

“I was never actually bored of our talk. I couldn’t  possibly  be!”

 

For it was real.  A single word of Zant's entertained him more than watching bokoblins fight for a yellowed bone.

Apparently  , Zant thought the same. As if to prove it, he started stroking Ghirahim's hair, yet saying nothing, so  sweetly  it made his heart skip a beat.  Figuratively , of course, since he did not have a heart.

Ghirahim was so allured by that simple gesture his face dipped until it was inches apart from Zant's.

 

Immediately, he  was washed  over by a nameless Greed.

 

He wanted  all of  Zant's words.  Ah, but since that would never be possible, he decided he could quench such dire need by asking him about himself, for a change.

Perhaps  the topic wasn't best suited for the moment. Or,  perhaps , Ghirahim didn't express himself with enough caution.

But when he asked Zant what scared him in the same way, his eyes lost their usual shine.

And in them all the toxic broth of the past seemed to come afloat.

 

“Ah… I thought I would never have to tell you,” his lips were almost not parting; almost touching Ghirahim's as he spoke. “My fears aren't like yours, they do not make strict sense. I fear Helplessness, Powerlessness and Oblivion.  Perhaps  one day I will find myself in a situation that involves all three of those, my banes… again. And  perhaps, it will be definitive that day.”

 

Ghirahim could only nod when he heard Zant’s words turn fear into an object of beauty.  The way he spoke gave all his fears entity, and they were vengeful gods with capitalized names and a personal hitlist.

 

“I see how that frightens you; I do! I  just  never  truly  guessed it paralyzed you like that.”

 

Zant took in  perhaps  too much at once, only to let it all out when his burden was too heavy.  Oftentimes did Ghirahim see his stare dull and his fists clench to the sound of some internal cacophony. Almost like he had been far too troubled by the world to care anymore. And when he released his woes, the world trembled and quaked.

What's more grievous still, it  occasionally  was pertaining Ghirahim's personality. It seemed to wear him at times. Of course, Ghirahim himself wasn't ever the type to talk about his problems... but he did not like  being blown  up on!  Once the strikes were too many or too critical, the whole weight of Zant's humors gushed out in a most violent display.

Fear? That seldom came into play at all.  Helplessness, powerlessness and oblivion seemed like only faint ghosts for a person like him.

So he feared he would ever find himself in a situation where he met those three at once. Well, Ghirahim had something to raise him.

 

“ Truthfully , I can't bring myself to even try to imagine you in that situation. I doubt you will ever be in it.”

 

That was the only reflection he could hold. Knowing Zant's strength and wit, he would never be powerless. At least not as long as his spirit was young and indomitable.

His youth… ah, had Ghirahim ever stopped to think about Zant's age? He once said he hadn't yet been alive for three twili decades. If Twilis were anything like Hylians, then Zant was at his prime. Would time rob him of his spirit, much like it did to the rest of the mortals? Ghirahim thought Zant too special for such mundane losses!

 

Thunder, more distant this time, gritted and rolled against the metallic lining of the sky. It was only a second after the arch of light bound to it, so Ghirahim hadn't had time to  anticipate  it at all.

The startled look in his eyes and shaky hands warned Zant, better than any words could, that he had to hold him. He rolled to the side again and pressed Ghirahim to his chest.

 

“Would you prefer my company through talk and wakefulness or through dreams and rest?”

 

Ghirahim’s words hitched, but he could manage to respond, in a much less poetic way, that he would like to keep talking.  As all means of reply, Zant nodded while his arms, secured around Ghirahim, nestled him with loving sincerity.

Although his heart ached in the knowledge that Ghirahim did not voice his feelings, Zant felt like they  genuinely  shared something there and then.

 

As per usual, their talk was wide, involving topics of all types. At first, they only murmured things, removed from the state they were in. Technicalities about the war and the losses of their army.  For example, the  concerning  state of the Southwest keep, which had been enduring a siege since the fourth day of Spring, as Zant reckoned .

That talk was  quickly  worn, and it led Ghirahim to wonder about the seasons for Zant. Sure, he had asked before about life in the Twilight Realm; but he wasn't aware of it dividing life by seasons.

Thus, Zant explained that Time, for Twilis, wasn't linear but a cycle, and each life was one, comprised of smaller, faster cycles of highs and lows.  Similar to  the hylian horoscope, Twilis born during spring and fall (the usual seasons, since heat and breeding periods were during Summer and Winter) had their own patron deities, and traits believed to associate with them from the moment of birth.

Certainly, Ghirahim found it way different to the demonic tradition and listened to the details with genuine respect. Upon hearing the names of the seasonal deities, he made an effort in memorizing them and their traits.

 

Then the conversation steered to Ghirahim's people's customs; but it did not yield much to Zant.

Ghirahim's reasons for his detail-bereft talk were quite a few: that his memory had taken a blow after becoming Demise's sword; that he had been alive for millennia on end with no contact with his extinct people whatsoever; that remembering that was pointless, for those times were long gone, and so were their customs… 

 

And he gave those reasons without as much as a grimace as a display of emotion.

 

Before they had exhausted their talk, the sky was yet again parted by the rolling scream of thunder, causing Ghirahim's muscles to tense. He hissed and clutched Zant's chest like he was desperate to get a handhold. And oh, he was.

 

Zant planted an idle kiss to Ghirahim's cheek. _I'm here, I'm here_ , his actions said. And his words continued the conversation  naturally, right from where it had  been cut  off. His lips were close to Ghirahim's ear and moved  scarcely  to speak. His voice was soft and deep,  just  like another kiss.

After some time of talking, Ghirahim decided kisses sounded  equally  good; and he acted on it.  It only took him canting his face to the side and then, before looking into Zant's confused eyes, he inched closer until their lips met.

It was a kiss like a ceremony, thousands of times more intimate than their average liplocks. A kiss like a ritual, not for duty but will. It signified protection and Zant could almost taste words in it.

Specific words. But he dared not mention it. Nor did he dare utter a single word about Ghirahim's warm and humid cheeks, which he cleaned with kisses.

 

In that moment, Ghirahim felt thankful, glad, and something else. He was so drawn to Zant's charm and courtly manners, and how he hadn't ridiculed him for crying!  Truly  a supporting one, this Twili. It seemed as though they both were different people when with the other. As soon as they  were stripped  of their warlike duties, that was _who_ and _how_ they  really  were.

And Zant was still as possessive and passionate. And Ghirahim was still as loyal and driven. And they both had much composure until they saw themselves bested and cornered.

As his crudest attempt at building poise, Ghirahim drew back from Zant and blinked, his brow furrowed in stoicism.

 

 _He would endure_.

 

But that did not mean,  however, that there wasn't something he could do to  alleviate  his burden. In a ritual action, he fixed his hair, which had become mussed with all his hysteria, and cleared his throat.

 

“This is bound to happen each time a storm takes place,” he commented  dernly.

 

“Is that so?” Zant’s long index finger  was entertained  with the subtle fold of Ghirahim’s arm joint where it meets his chest.  It escalated and dribbled like a lively creature, traveling such an enticing geography; and it did not want to stop.

 

“In that case,” he continued in a  barely  short of commanding tone, eyes glowing with opportunity, “we’d better make an arrangement with utmost haste.”

 

Such _arrangement_ could  possibly  rival the change in Ghirahim’s expression.  In less than an instant, he had traded fear and reverence for an intrigued type of flirtatiousness.

 

“Why don't you take these quarters as yours, and share them with me until the war ends? I am certain there will be more storms to come, and I would hate to leave you alone when that happens.”

 

Ghirahim lapped up the words like honey on the rim of a flask, and took in the excuse. It went by almost unnoticed.

Truth was, Zant had been aching to make that proposition for longest seasons, and he saw the chance in his fear.  He hated to know his bed was cold beside him while his mate slept in another one;  equally  large,  equally  cold and empty. Lacking _him. Empty of **Ghirahim**_.

Perhaps  it was a bit egoistic.  It was, without a doubt, the breach through which they could get Ganondorf to  officially  give them permission to move together!

They had slept in the same quarter, but only after bedding together, which they didn't do every night.  For some reason, their Master had made the nonsensical assumption that if they  were given  leisure to share a room, they would not only deprive themselves of sleep but also stir the entire bokoblin division awake with their calling and crying.

Zant didn't even have the energy for that every odd night!

 

So now, with an official reason, they would  be allowed  to have a space which belonged  exclusively  to the both of them, at once.

There was still something else:

 

Their love -their most  evidenced, yet still left unproclaimed, _mutual love_.


End file.
